


Laughter Cracking through the Walls

by HarlequinMistress



Series: getting off your high horse [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Asphyxiation, BDSM, Being Walked In On, Biting, Bloodplay, Boss/Employee Relationship, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Explicit Language, Intercrural Sex, M/M, References to Drugs, Throne Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 20:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30094572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarlequinMistress/pseuds/HarlequinMistress
Summary: The Grand Highblood has summoned the Executor to his throneblock. Absolutely nothing of worth occurs.
Relationships: Darkleer/Grand Highblood (Homestuck)
Series: getting off your high horse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199321
Kudos: 8





	Laughter Cracking through the Walls

**Author's Note:**

> The titles are all from the song Spellbound by Siouxsie and the Banshees, off their album Juju.  
> Hope you enjoy it! :)

“Your Tyrannical Levity, the Executor Darkleer has arrived,” says the Highblood’s unlucky little secreterrorist, kneeling at his feet. 

The Highblood surreptitiously glances at the watchface on the inside of his wrist. Zero three-hundred hours, on the fuckin’ dot. His new little piece of ass is punctual; too punctual to be anything other than steaming mad. He smiles. Exactly as planned. “Make him wait about five minutes, say some shit about a prior meeting or whatever the fuck, then send him in.”

The secreterrorist stands, bows in half, then scurries out. Kurloz will never not be amused at the sheer terror he inspires in others, despite not actually posing that big of a threat. Sure, he’ll cull whatever little gutterblood what doesn’t do good enough of a job to suit him, but he doesn’t make a habit out of it.

The E-227 Form (“Unsantioned Culling Of A Subordinate Of A Lower Caste”) is too much of a Messiahs-damn pain in the ass, all seven-fucking-teen pages of it. Hell, his throneblock ain’t even _actually_ covered in blood—you’d think the dumbass motherfuckers he’s forced to interact with on a nightly basis would’ve figured it out just ‘cause of the fucking _limeblood_ everywhere _._ Those bitches were genocided before _he_ even fuckin’ hatched, and he was one old dirty bastard. It’s mostly paint, pigments comin’ from fucking _plants_. He saves the real shit for the Chapels, and even then it has to be lacquered before it dries otherwise it’s just a fuckin’ dull, flaky mess. 

The throneblock doors _slam_ open, three minutes ahead of schedule. Kurloz grins. 

_It’s showtime._

Executor Darkleer walks ( _is that a limp?_ ) towards him, silent and posi-fucking-tively _fuming_. Idly Kurloz wonders what exactly he did that made him so angry. Between the pretending to not know his favorite little upstart archeradicator officer, the blundering and idiocy, the public humiliation, the mess in the respiteblock, or the large bill his clowns left for ponybitch to pay, there were a few options.

As little blue here gets to the foot of the staircase leading up to his throne—positioned _just right_ sovisitors get an eyeful of his sigil-codpiece—the Highblood sees the faded remnant of the slap, that tiny little punishment. Maybe it was that, or the bite-claims he left? Or a combination...

His favorite pitch-bitch just stands there, trembling. It looks to Kurloz as if he’s caught between wanting to continue following protocol, to bend knee and give respect, and being just too motherfuckin’ incensed to do it. Oh, he _likes_ this one. 

“Sup, ponybitch,” he says, real casual-like. 

Darkleer growls. If Kurloz hadn’t had a meeting in an hour he would have pounced on him, used him like the fuckin’ bulgeslut freaky bitch he is. But he’s mellowed out with age, he can control this little urge. At least for long enough to get that meeting rescheduled. Who would have the fuckin’ audacity to make a complaint about it against the Grand Motherfucking Highblood? Fuckin’ no one, that’s who.

“Apparently I’m a monetary supporter of the Church of the Mirthful Messiahs now.” He says, _barely_ keeping the snarl out of his voice, still standing, head held proud. 

_So that was it,_ Kurloz thinks, filing that little factoid away for future use, that hitting him in his wallet is what hurts. That was a particularly inspired bit of pitch-flirting he thought up there, and he didn’t have to do anything ‘cept tell his brothers and sisters to drink up. 

“We thank a brother who helps us spread the good motherfucking word, honkelujah. Blessings be upon you.” Kurloz replies, register deepening as he uses his preacher-voice on the fuckin’ heathen. He sees ponybitch’s mouth go slack in _rage_ , he can feel it roiling off of him. Time to make him even _more_ mad. “Besides, with how you made officer fifty sweeps early, bet you’re real fuckin’ used to doin’ _favors_ for your superiors.”

And that does the trick.

“I did not get my position by _sleeping with_ or _paying off_ anyone!” Hor hisses. Oh, this was even better than the hoofbeastplay reaction. “You know _damn well_ that I achieved this on my own merits and through exceptional service—” 

“Yeah, exceptional service to the Archeradicator Admiral’s nook.” 

Hor is fucking livid. He goes on some rant about his distinctions within the archeradicators and whatever-the-fuck other parts of the military he was in. Kurloz tunes him out, honestly astonished that a ponybitch ain’t realized he’s just fuckin’ with him. His pan turns to the memory of pailin’ him, all origami’d up and hot little neden all stretched out around him—Kurloz got a nice gander at that big blue bulge then, and was so looking forward to having it. With how it’s going so far, he’s half-apt to cancel that next meeting and order ponybitch to fuck him silly on his throne. 

“Are you even listening to me?” Hor says, panting from the effort of the righteous defense or some shit. 

“Not even a fuckin’ little bit.” He responds, totally truthfully, pulling out his palmhusk and texting his secreterrorist to reschedule his next two meetings, citing some made-up clown holiday. A priestly motherfucker needin’ to get bulged down hard is grounds enough for a fuckin’ holiday. Bastards never fuckin’ remember any of the actual Holy Nights anyway. 

Darkleer clamps a hand over his mouth and yells in frustration. Kurloz breaks character for the first time during this little meeting, cracking up at this tight-laced aristocrat revealing how much of a fucking bitch he actually is. “What’s your secreterrorist’s name, by the way?”

“Codakk,” ponybitch responds automatically, still angry.

Kurloz knew that, having facilitated a little bet on his behalf. Not his fault the officers’ lips were tight as fuck but the staffs’ weren’t. He pulls up their Trollian conversation and tells him to free up the next two hours for dear Darkleer, Highblood’s orders. Codakk hits him with a salute gif immediately. Ha, what a kid. He’ll have to get little Codakk assigned to him once his current secreterrorist gets a transfer to another regiment or to the dark carnival.

“It looks like we’ve both got a couple hours freed up,” Kurloz says, as if he didn’t just make that happen, grinning like the meowbeast that got the squawkbeast all the while. “How bout you make your complaints in a _different_ way?”

He can just tell that Hor’s eyes are wide fuckin’ open, pretty indigo pupils blown, even if he can’t see them, that thirsty lil thing. “You don’t mean…?” 

“Pailing on my throne? Uh, yeah, I do motherfuckin’ mean that.” 

His ponybitch goes and closes the throneblock doors. Then he calmly, steadily, walks the length back up to the stairs and then, for the first time, ascends them. He stands at eye level with the seated Highblood and—without asking, without warning—kisses him. A better description would be _violently smashes their fucking faces together_ , though, as it has only the most superficial resemblance to a kiss. 

Kurloz feels heavily muscled arms wrap around his neck, the warmth of Darkleer’s broad chest and hips as he presses himself fully against the seated Highblood. Ponybitch’s hands go up and dig themselves into Kurloz’s wild mane of hair, right at the back of his head, yanking from the root. Makara lets out an appreciative little hum, and Zahhak takes the opportunity to nip at his bottom lip, drawing blood. Oh, he likes it when his bitches get feisty. His ponybitch is probably getting off on the impropriety of the situation, the descecration of a site of highblooded rule, the closest thing his atheist ass has to a holy place. That or the role-reversal, the lowblood taking the aggressive dominant role, all his beloved social scripts dashed to pieces. 

Darkleer breaks the kiss, panting. Under that half-helmet (cowl?), he can see that his ponybitch is flushed and sweaty. Again, Kurloz checks the time. It’s been twenty minutes, and Horuss has been reduced to this state _already_. 

They hadn’t even been kissing that long. He’s going to enjoy wrecking the shit out of his favorite whore, making him leave immediately after and go back to work all mussed up and stinking of sex and purpleblood pheromones. Fuck being _proper_ , he wants everyone to _know_ just what kind of a depraved bucketslut the Executor is and how much he loves taking Kurloz’s bulge. Smirking, the Highblood reverently grabs ponybitch’s plush ass—it’d only been a couple nights but, oh, how did he miss that little slice of perky perfection. He squeezes real motherfuckin’ tightly.

Horuss clutches onto his wrists, and digging his thumbs into a nerve-point that makes Kurloz’s fingers spasm, forces the Highblood’s hands off of his body. When he fights the grasp, Kurloz finds he physically cannot break Darkleer’s grip, he’s completely trapped. His ponybitch is stronger than him? That’s pretty motherfuckin’ hot. 

Unable to do anything, Kurloz stops struggling. 

“Unlike _some_ trolls, I care about my reputation,” Hor says as he stills, dropping the Highblood’s wrists and stepping back onto the top stair. “I won’t be walking halfway across the base in a ripped uniform like some _trollop_.” 

And then he strips; shrugging off his armor, unzipping the bodysuit and stepping out of it. He takes off his headgear last, and Kurloz takes in the sight of his ponybitch’s full face for the second time. First time that he was actually cognizant and not fucked to pieces or unconscious. Kurloz loves the juxtaposition of the strong jaw and the squareness of Hor’s immense muscular self with the pretty eyes framed by long lashes and the soft lushness of his lips. 

_(Don’t think about how different he looked in our lost-idyllic youth don’t think about how beautiful he was before the military chewed him up and put murder in those big ol’ cow eyes don’t think about how I pitied and hated him, rubies and onyx—_ Do _think about how I get to fuck him again and the li’l bitch I borrowed him from doesn’t, won’t ever again.)_

“Are you waiting for a written invitation from the Empress?” A naked ponybitch snarks at him in the present. 

“The _Empress_ wants to fuck me so motherfuckin’ bad it makes her look stupid. Shut the fuck up,” Kurloz snarks back, standing up to shuck his pants off and throw them and his vest halfway across the block. He sits his bare ass back down on the throne exactly how he was, thighs spread. His bulgetip is peeking out of its sheath and his nook is glimmering with prematerial. 

And ponybitch, decidedly _not_ a one-trick pony, doesn’t do the obvious, doesn’t sink down and put that miraculous tongue on him again. No, he wraps his arms around Kurloz’s thighs, grabs him by the hips, and _picks him up_ off his throne, kissing him all the while. The Highblood, surprised, wraps his legs around Hor’s waist, grabs at his shoulders. He feels the scars of his claim-bites on either shoulder under his hands; the curved rough patches and divots in ponybitch’s otherwise unmarred, smooth, warm skin, and is unordinarily pleased that he hadn’t went to a mediculler get them zapped off. 

It was then that the Grand Highblood fully realized just how bad he had it for Executor Darkleer. He had _thought_ that it was only a little pitch-fling, little blast from the past action, see if he couldn’t loosen him up just a little. But _now,_ he… He was admirable of Darkleer’s impressive, short career and the efficient, perfect way he followed the Highblood’s orders, but his personality and the incongruence between his beliefs and his actions just annoyed the everlovin’ fuck out of the Highblood, and he...

_He motherfucking hates him._

Setting that aside. For a good long fuckin’ while. Kurloz puts a hand on Hor’s exposed throat, gentle-like, thumb pressing into the softest flesh under a ponybitch’s jaw. He can feel the resulting trill at the threat—both through his hand and through his lips. And then he feels Hor’s bulge start poking at his thighs, warm and spreading pre-material all over, the blunt tip searching for his nook. 

“Put me back on the throne,” Kurloz breathes out. 

“Yes, Highbl—” Before he could get the word out, Kurloz slaps him again, directly on the faded bruise of the last slap. 

Horuss growls, again, and slams him down on the throne, cracking the wood under the upholstered padding. Before Kurloz could adjust to it, before he could unwrap his legs from Hor’s waist, even, Horuss slides his bulge into Kurloz’s nook. All of it, in one sinuous thrust. Kurloz moans, unashamedly, and Horuss grabs the base of his horns, pulling them back and forcing Kurloz to look up, to bare his throat to a ponybitch. 

His beloathed pulls out of him, almost to the tip. As he slams back into Kurloz, he sinks his teeth into the side of his throat. Makara screams at the assault. Horuss’ teeth encircle the artery in his neck—if he bites any further into his flesh then Kurloz could very well bleed out and die. But he doesn’t, ponybitch just holds steady, using the hold on his horns and his throat to immobilize him as he fucks Kurloz’s nook raw. The Highblood loses himself to the pleasure and to the pain, moaning and drooling and unheeding of any sensation that isn’t Horuss. Brutally is his ponybitch fucking him, praise be to the Messiahs, pulling out as much as Kurloz’s legs around his waist allows him and slamming back in with _almost_ enough force to break his hipbones. 

And then he stops his thrusting, letting go of the hold he had on Kurloz’s neck and horns. Able to look down at a ponybitch, he goes to ask _why in the motherfuck did you stop_. Then, between Hor’s arrowhead-horns, he sees the doors wide open, a little fish-bitchboy just barely past Ascension gawking at them in the middle of the entryway. His oh-four-hundred guidance meeting, ‘cause this seadweller was too much of a fuck-up to have a C.O. of the same blood, Kurloz would put good money on. Watery bastards were so fuckin’ _entitled_ , every fucking thing revolves around their fucking useless gills—couldn’t wait a couple _fucking_ hours for his rescheduled meeting. 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing just standin’ there like a Messiahs-damned pan-rotted idiot-bitch, _get the fuck out of here_ —” The Highblood roars, not appreciating the intrusion but even more pissed at a fishie causing ponybitch to stop fucking him. 

The pan-rotted-idiot-bitch fishboy turns tail and runs, closing the door with a solid _bang_ behind him.

“Rude motherfucker _._ ” Kurloz mumbles.

Horuss is still frozen, purple blood staining his mouth. From the stricken look on his face, Kurloz reckons he’s mortified. Must be the first time he’d done ever been walked in on. For bein’ such a kinky motherfucker he’s one uptight bitch. Between his ponybitch’s long, flowing maneand his legs, it weren’t like the li’l bitchboy could see anything. Kurloz wraps both hands around Hor’s neck, just a little bit of pressure, rolls his hips down on his bulge and _that_ works a charm. The Highblood rests his forehead against ponybitch’s, stares into those beautiful eyes, as Hor starts fucking into him in earnest once more. 

Horuss’ breaths come out in pants, exhausted from the exertion of their tryst—Kurloz can feel his heartbeat through his own hands, the fluttery strong beat. His eyes are filled with tar-black feelings, Kurloz can see, past the sex-haze. Kurloz squeezes, just enough to restrict Hor’s airway, not completely cut it off. Horuss keeps driving into him, first still hard and fast, then successively slower and softer as he loses oxygen faster’n he can get it, wheezing, thrusts sluggish but by the Messiahs, he’s still trying, and the Highblood is so enjoying every moment of it. Kurloz, in a momentary show of mercy, eases up on his throat, and Horuss coughs, a gross hacking thing. 

When he’s recovered, ponybitch moves forward, driving his bulge deep in Kurloz’s nook, and just keeps it there, letting it thrash and move within the sensitive flesh. Kurloz hauls Hor forward by the throat, kissing him hot and frantic, tasting his own purpleblood on Horuss’ lips and in his mouth—the wound he left barely clotted over, now. His ponybitch is grinding into him, stimulating his entrance and that fuckin’ _spot_ , and he is so gone. Moaning and chirring loud enough to shame any pailvid star, Kurloz goes closer and closer to that little-death—and, fuck, his bulge ain’t even fuckin’ out. Damn. Hor got one mighty fine miracle betwixt his legs. 

Idly, Kurloz makes a mental note to send up a prayer for sendin’ him Horuss again, when he could actually have him. 

In that split-second of distraction, Horuss grabs a double-handful of Kurloz’s hair and he _tugs_. That extra site of pain sends Kurloz direct to little-death and halfway to Shangri fuckin’ La. He screams out _fuck_ , loud enough to deafen a gutterblood, and he spills his slurry, stains the throne’s seat and his ponybitch’s thighs with purple. Horuss, ever so considerate, pulls out of him when his nook stops spasming and goes extra-painful-sensitive. Kurloz releases his neck.

They just stay there for a moment, panting, Kurloz enjoying the afterglow and Horuss resting a moment, his lower back muscles protesting from the increased use, his bulge writhing against the Highblood’s stomach. 

“Put both my legs over your shoulders,” Kurloz instructs once he comes back to himself. 

Ponybitch looks a bit confused, but he does it anyway, gently moving Kurloz’s legs from around his waist and propping his knees atop his shoulders, holding them there with a hand on either knee. 

“Good boy,” Kurloz purrs, squeezing his thighs together, trapping Hor’s bulge between. “Now fuck my thighs.”

Ponybitch got the spirit now. He does as he is motherfucking told and the obscene sound of Horuss’ hips clapping against the meat of Kurloz’s thighs and ass fills the throneblock. It looks like Kurloz’s bulge ain’t gonna be joinin’ them this time, ‘cause that’s hot as fuck. Gettin’ old fucking sucks. 

Could be that he’s also high off his ass, though. 

And kinda drunk.

Fuckin’ _whatever._ He got a gorgeous troll-musclebeast comin’ completely un-fucking-done by his thighs alone, that’s the important thing here. And he’s able to properly appreciate the sounds comin’ out of a ponybitch now that he ain’t half outta his own pan with pleasure; grunts and whines and moans all beget of the pressure between Kurloz’s thighs. Introducing Hor to the wonders of intercrural sex is probably the best and most motherfuckin’ important thing he does all night, especially considerin’ the state of his remaining schedule. 

_Who schedules a motherfucking meeting when you can just send a fucking email?!_

Well. A motherfucker knows bureaucracy is complete horseshit when bitchin’ bout it distracts him from the thick, warm bulge sliding between his legs. Horuss has about lost all sense of rhythm and intersperses longer strokes with short, staccato thrusts. He’s awful fuckin’ close. Not wantin’ to keep a brother high and dry, Kurloz presses his shins together and, where they’re on either side of Hor’s neck, chokes him. And that fucking does it, the kinky bitch. He’s spilling all over Kurloz, painting his abdomen with indigo slurry. And gets it all up in his hair. _Ugh. That’s gonna be a bitch and a half to get out._

Hor shrugs off his legs, and Kurloz’s hipjoints did _not_ appreciate being at such an angle for that long mother _fuck, ow._ Ponybitch looks no worse for wear, though, and Kurloz envies his vim and vigor as he rubs his afflicted joints, remembering his own contortionist past. Youth is wasted on the motherfucking youth. 

Wait. When did Kurloz get to be such an old motherfucker he thinks that _fifty-four sweeps_ is _youthful_? Messiahs be, what the fuck. 

Horuss just stands there for a second, unsure as what to do in the awkward middleground of sex and actual social interaction, as he was unconscious for that the last time they’d pailed. Kurloz opens his arms, and ponybitch falls into them, uncaring of the mess they’d left on his body. His face rests on the claim-mark he’d made earlier, his hands resting on Kurloz’s chest. It _was_ a nice chest, Kurloz was glad that at least _some_ of his bucketspawn inherited the good titty genes, and glad that his ponybitch likes ‘em too. He wraps his arms around the heavy blueblood resting on top of him, and grabs that ass. It was criminal how little Kurloz was able to indulge in experiencing that butt, touching-wise and looking-wise. He could compose so many motherfucking psalms about it, write a few fuckin’ sermons, even, and still not fully fucking express just how fucking tight and perky it was. _Fuck._

“I’m still mad about the charge,” Horuss murmurs against his neck.


End file.
